The Chosen

My fingers thudded restlessly against the wooden desk, my eyes flickering across the room while a group of girls chatted nonstop behind me. My temper was wearing thin as the frustration heightened my hearing. My eyes flashed, my hand curling into a ball, and I could feel their voices becoming dimmer and harder to listen. Then, they abruptly ended their conversation and faced forward, folding their hands on top of their desks.

That was the type of power I wielded.

Some say it really isn’t a special ability at all. By planting ideas into an individual’s mind – giving them the choice whether to do what I wanted subconsciously or not. You could call it compulsion, but it’s really not. I can’t describe it, or pinpoint it, but I know it’s there. I get a lot of sidelong glances throughout the day – most likely trying to figure out what I did. If they would asked me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell them.

However, my parents sent me here none the less. My mother is an oracle, and she saw – when I was twelve years old at the time – that it would be highly important that I was a student at the academy in years to come. So far, that day hasn’t come, and I doubted it ever would.

“Mr. Christopher, in the back.” Professor Dricard announced.

“Yes?” I leaned forward in my seat, my attention on the front of the room, peering at the professor in question.

“You are wanted in the Headmistress’s office.” He declared, giving me a speculative look that said, Now what did you do wrong this time? If I did do anything wrong, I surely wasn’t aware of it.

I nodded grudgingly, and got up my chair. I grabbed my books that were perched halfway off my desk, and gathered them in the crux of my arm. I slipped out of the wooden double doored room with nothing but a wisp, and made my way silently to the office. The hall was scarce except for the occasional students passing through the hallways, or the teachers walking and talking together, explaining lesson plans they thought would be most successful. The same alabaster pillars that rose out of the flooring were scuffed and worn from the many years this school has been open. The same ancient murals decorating the walls depicting Saint Jude, or Saint Joseph of the Cross – one of our many patrons who had many powers including prophecy, and healing. I rounded the corner, and approached the corridor that led into the Hall of Administration. I passed through the office entryway and went up to Mrs. Patris.

I stood before her, and setting her spectacles down, she looked up assessing me with her polite blue-gray eyes. “Ah! Mr. Christopher. Headmistress Mèdici will be with you in a moment.”

I was about to cast myself onto a nearby leather seat, but at that moment someone burst out of the Headmistress’s room.

Céline.

Céline Godrich, that is. She wore a navy blue cape and uniform like the rest of us, her knee high leather boots struck the wooden floor, her pale blond hair wafting in the air, her eyes flashing as they met mine. Her smoldering hazel gaze shifted to the exit and her pupils became fully dilated instantly, blackening her eyes. Her hand lifted and made a brisk, sweeping motion in the space in front of her, and sure enough the administration’s door swung open to meet her commands. She stormed out the door, and it slammed behind her. Mrs. Patris sighed behind me. “Poor child.” She murmured.

Poor child? I scoffed.

I raised my eyebrows but didn’t say anything more. We’ve all heard a lot about Ms. Godrich. The way she was suppose to make or break the world that lay before us, the way her actions would dictate how we lived our own lives. She was nothing but an over powered, arrogant, self-centered girl that needed to control herself and think about how everyone else is fairing for a change.